OK SO! Team Hug John McCain 2009 is actually a force to be reckoned with and probably the most successful team I've ever been on (and Lord knows I played a lot of competitive T-ball in my day.) On one hand I'm impressed with the team's effort to support my juvenile antics, but on the other, I'm depressed because this means people are just as bored at work as I am. I hoped better for you.
All in all, team HJMcC'09 showed some nice hustle out there, but I'm giving MVP to a staffer in McCain's office who emailed me and has since been named my official Senatorial Hug Consultant. According to Staffer, a Team HJMcC'09 victory might be more difficult than anticipated because the J McC doesn't hand out hugs like lollipops. Apparently, there exist only three documented J McC hugs: 1.) w/ Joe Lieberman, 2.) w/ George W. Bush and 3.) w/ an intern who awkwardly turned a side-hug into a full-frontal hug (which is so impressive I'm not even mad.)
But we're not giving up, team! We can still come back! Staffer has concocted a genius plan where I'll sneak into an intern photo-op and get an official John McCain side-hug. Staffer's probably going to call me the day-of, so my plan is to shout "MCCAIN POWER!", punch my boss in the face, run to Capitol Hill and then fold in like melted butter amongst the interns until go-time. In case you were wondering if I have a frame ready for the official photo, I don't, but I always imagined it looking like this: My birthday is April 16th. Just an FYI.
In other news, remember that asshole bartender from Axis with the lisp who didn't do a god-damn thing when a white cap started to go all Chris Brown on me and Anna? Well it turns out he was in the same fraternity at GW as my friend Dave! This originally confused the hell out of me because Dave is cool as shit whereas Lispy is about as cool as a Meek on her period, but then Dave informed me that Lispy was generally recognized as a giant douche bag even back then. Apparently his pledge nickname was something disgusting like "Let it Bleed," because one night he was bangin' a chick doggy-style (I know! I was surprised someone would willingly have sex with him too!) when he missed and rammed it in her ass resulting in some...unpleasantness. First of all, what sort of whack-a-mole game are you playing with your dick that you missed her vagina entirely and landed completely up her ass? I don't have a dick, but if I did I don't think I'd be all willy-nilly ramming it into whatever hole I land in if I did. Secondly, I know this happened before the run-in at the bar, but I'm still going to make the following statement and stand by it: if you're a jerk to me or my friends, God will punish you by saturating your dick in anus blood. There. I said it. The choice is yours.
Praise the sweet Lawd Jesus; I'm no longer a Waitress Slash Bartender! I got a call last week from a company that I'd been interviewing with in early December for an event planning/marketing job. I didn't care who I had to blow to get it-- this job was mine. I walked into the first interview feeling confident and left an hour and a half later feeling the same way I do after a really good first date: I was giddy, couldn't stop smiling, told my friends it was "The One!" and was envisioning our perfect future together. Unfortunately, as with most of my amazing first dates, I never heard from the rat-bastard again. I was left hurt and wondering what I had done wrong (I hadn't even put out yet! According to my mom that means they have to buy the cow, or the truck or whatever you're buying!)
In a stroke of uncharacteristic luck, I got a call from the company last week apologizing for losing touch and asking if I was still interested in the position. Because "YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I AM" might be a wee bit too forthcoming, I said yes. Two days and a meeting later, I was hired.
I'm excited about this turn of events for a bevy of reasons, (money! a company issued Blackberry! corporate dress code! I feel like Maxine from Living Single!) the most exciting being that I don't have to be a Waitress Slash Bartender anymore. And I'm not going to lie to you, if I hadn't quit I'm pretty positive I would have been fired within a few weeks. Why you may ask? Because I am without question the World's Worst Waitress Slash Bartender. Here's why:
I'm not actually a waitress. Nor am I really a bartender. This is slightly problematic when working as a waitress slash bartender. If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't make a drink or acted genuinely inconvenienced when asked for silverware...well, I'd probably have tips that were proportionate to my number of tables.
I'm slow-moving and easily distracted. If I wanted to run around I would join a gym, a-thank you very much. I handpicked this job because I thought it would allow me maximum slack-assery with minimal effort. I'm sorry you have to get back to the office, but I have a text message to get back to. That takes precedence. And I'm going to write it at my own pace. Yes, my pace is that of a sea turtle, but that's how I roll. Slow and covered in tortoiseshell accessories. And it wasn't my idea to put five TV's in the bar! Do you have any idea how distracting Judge Judy is on mute? DO YOU?!
People are stupid. The things that come out of people's mouths make me wish I could perform a vasectomy. Because my mind is always on auto snark, it's incredibly hard to stop myself from cracking wise-ass comments while dealing with a customer. Then there's always this really awkward delay between their question and my response because I've yet to master constructing said wise-ass comment in my head while simultaneously saying something polite to their face.Here's a real world example:
Man standing at top of stairs: Excuse me, I want table service. I don't want to order deli-style. Me:Sure thing sir, if you go downstairs I'll happily take your order and bring you your food. Man(in an exasperated tone):PFFSHH, but how am I supposed to get down there?! - You fly sir. Step one: grow a pair of wings. Step two: flap them motherfuckers. Happy landing. - Me (after staring in silence for six seconds): There are stairs directly to your left sir. Walk down them.
I frequently leave the bar to flirt with the barista upstairs. As it turns out, bar managers don't like when you leave customers alone with their alcohol and cash register to ask the hottie barista the story behind his tattoo. I'm sorry, but if you don't put it in the employee handbook, how am I supposed to know?!
Sometimes I just don't feel like talking. Many people a day come in alone, order a drink and expect you to entertain them. This isn't a date buddy, I'm not going to bend over backwards to carry on a conversation with you. A guy came into the bar last week (who had an honest to God snout, but that is neither here nor there) who would not stop talking to me about iced tea. Of all the asinine things to talk about, he wanted to talk about iced tea (do you like it sweetened or unsweetened? How about instant mixes? Ever brew your own? What's your favorite flavored iced tea? Ever try an iced green tea from Starbucks, it's amazing! Iced tea is such a delicious way to stay hydreated throughout the day...) COME ON!!!!! I've been talking about everything from Obama to fly-fishing for the past seven hours! I'm exhausted! Sometimes I just can't converse anymore. Call a friend. Christ.
The Inauguration is over. The Inauguration was my somewhat unique go-to conversation starter. Now that it's over, I got nothing. Just a lifetime of conversations about the weather and iced tea.
I'm horrible with names. At the bar, we're supposed to ask every customer's name, shake their hand and put their tab in the computer system under said name. The problem is that I have the memory of a goldfish and once a customer tells me their name, I've forgotten it by the time I get to the computer. To make up for this, I get a little descriptive with tab names (which has to be in eight characters or less.) This leads to a lot a lot of open tabs under names like "AcneKid," "BstdChk," and "HotLawyr." I had to be taken aside by one of the bar managers and informed that the tab name gets printed on the patron's check in large letters, so stop being so "creative."
I was accidentally racist. Last Friday I was waiting on a large birthday party during happy hour. One member of the party, an Asian gentleman, was hassling me to card the birthday girl because she had just turned 25. The birthday girl was clearly irritated by this guy pointing out that she had just turned 25, so I decided to diffuse the situation by telling him that if I had to card her, I would have to card him first. Then the following misunderstanding took place:
Asian Man: Oh come on! You're going to card me? I'm ANCIENT! Me (...who heard something entirely different than "ancient"):Ohh, I'm definitely going to card you sir. Especially because you're ASIAN! Asian Man (deadpan): I said ancient. Not Asian. Me: (gurgles a series of painfully awkward noises.)
...I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to get into the office tomorrow.
The Quitting Your Job Drinking Game! Rules Drink when: - You walk into work, heart pounding, palms sweating, like you're about to break up with someone - Tasks you would never normally do seem inexplicably important to complete before you talk to your boss about quitting - You consult with a friend about how you should quit - You text a friend "I'M NERVOUS" - You remind yourself of all the things that piss you off about your job to give you the adrenaline needed to confront your boss - You inevitably fumble your well-planned quitting speech - Every time you say "um" - Every time you say "I'm so sorry" - Your boss tells you that he just doesn't know how he's going to fill these shifts - Every time you compromise your schedule and agree to work on days you clearly can't work because you feel guilty - You justify working more shifts (even though you promised yourself you wouldn't) because this means you'll be making more money - You realize that you'll be working during Inauguration weekend/day/week and it will be hell on earth not worth all the tea in China - You suddenly adopt a "fuck this noise" attitude, walk out mid-shift and go to Cosi's to get a slammin' bowl of soup and spend the rest of the day catnapping
...See you all Monday morning when hopefully I'll be an ex-bartender and full-time young professional again...
Teresa: Owner. I have a theory that all small-business owners are bat-shit crazy and this loon is no exception. Doug:Bar manager #1. Doug looks like your dad and once made me turn off CNN and put on Fox News because he refuses to "let the liberal media infest his bar." Doug is soft-spoken and nice enough, but talks about Jesus way too much for my liking. Doug's wife just had their first child and when I told him that I hadn't made up my mind about having kids, he told me not to worry because when the time comes, Jesus will turn on the switch to make me care for another being as much as I care for myself. Frankly, I don't hold myself in the highest regard, so if I do have kids, I sure as shit hope that's not true for their sake. Plus any and all conversations involving Jesus and turning me on make me painfully uncomfortable. Julien: Bar manager #2. Julien wears an Under Armour mock-turtleneck everyday (despite the fact that we're not playing a football game in 32 degree weather,) is a part-time karaoke DJ, a single dad and only drinks shots of Peppermint Schnapps. More importantly, Julien is also coked out of his gourd 9 times out of 10 and has a penchant for grabbing my ass and calling me "lover." Melissa:Part-time bartender, full-time girlfriend of Julien. Melissa is what I can best describe as "Boardwalk Hot." Every time I've seen her, she's wearing the same thing: white Reebok sneakers, khaki booty shorts and a Secrets Ocean City, MD sweatshirt. She is unusually tan, has long platinum blond extensions and has the personality of a parking meter. The weird thing about Melissa is that her face doesn't match her body. She has this amazing body and given the above description, I always think she's 22 years old. Then I look at her face and realize she's probably more like 42 years old. It's unsettling. Adam: Adam is a weekend bartender and looks like Tom Green times nerdier. Chef: Chef is Kenyan and learned English in France, which means 99% of the time I have no idea what he's saying. Chef came down to the bar this afternoon and said, "It smells like Satan's asshole in here," and it was the first thing he's said in a week and a half that I actually understood. Ondreah:Ondreah might be the only person who hates the concept of working more than me. Unfortunately, the only thing Ondreah hates more than working is white people. This created some tension between us during my first few days of work. Eventually Ondreah explained why she hates white people so much, and I explained that I'm not a White Devil and just want to be her homie. One night I was complaining about having a stressful day and she started lecturing me about how white people can't really have hard days. I lost it and shouted, "You're right! Everything is fine! I'm not tired at all! I never really work hard and everything comes easy to me and none of my problems are real! Now I'm going to float away on my cracker rainbow and continue to have a wonderful night!" Her reaction: "You. You are alright." We've been bestest friends ever since. The Greater Kitchen Staff Population: My BFFs #1. They save my ass when I inevitably screw things up and then come down to the bar at the end of their shifts to have a shot of cognac and shoot the shit with me. They each have oddly specific ice requests, which I know by heart. I now have a PhD in cognac mixology and feel pretty good about it.
I have to admit, being a bartender is a lot harder than I had originally anticipated. Before this job, I had never waited on a table a day in my life or made a single martini. Now I'm doing both. I got this job by lying my face off and telling Doug in my interview that I had worked at a bar before. Talia was my "boss" at this supposed bar and gave me a shining recommendation. I know, I know, I'm a raging liar and blah blah morals blah, but the bar is literally next to my apartment, I need money in a fierce way and it's a recession. After Doug gave me the job, I went out and bought Bartending for Dummies, watched a few instructional videos on YouTube and bada-bing-bada-boom; a bartender was born.
If I may say so, I think I'm doing a damn good job so far for being so full of shit. I've only completely fucked up one drink. Last Friday a guy came in and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Although I went through a phase Junior year when I consumed at least a dozen or so of these a weekend, I had no God-given clue how to make one. I remember learning in high school health class that a Long Island is just a bunch of various liquors mixed together with a splash of coke for color, so I threw a bunch of shit in a shaker and called it a day. As I was preparing the garnish, I noticed that the color of my freshly made cocktail resembled human excrement and began to get nervous. When the guy turned around to glance at the sports score on the TV, I threw a straw in his drink, sucked up some liquid and quickly hid under the bar to sample my concoction. It tasted like gin and death. I threw out the drink and tried again, but got the same disgusting result. Being the only bartender there, I told the guy our CO2 tank was out and I couldn't make him his Long Island Iced Tea because only syrup was coming out and please pick something else. As I successfully served him a Grey Goose and Pineapple, I applauded myself for my ability to think so quickly and then proceeded to serve the next customer a Jack and Coke. Coke being the integral part of that mixture. Bubbly, bubbly coke made from my magically broken and then magically fixed CO2 tank. Long Island man tipped me zero dollars, and I earned every penny of it.
Besides that little snafu, things are going swimmingly. The only downer is that I'm not crazy about my fellow bartenders. I think they're rednecks and I'm pretty sure they think I'm a snob (in the end we're probably both right). It's not a big deal because I'm usually the only bartender during my shift, but it's just sort of a drag when they are there. They're always gossiping about God knows what and doing drugs in the back room together and I am in no way invited. At first I was sad that they wouldn't let me in on the work gossip or share their drugs with me, but I'm starting to realize that it's probably a good thing that I'm not in on that in-crowd. I'm there to serve the booze and get some good stories, not make friends (I feel like I'm on a reality show all I'm not here to make friends!) Besides, I totally do have work friends! They're cognac drinkers and cognac beats coke in the backroom any day.
Besides, it'll be a cold day in hell before I spend a Saturday night at a karaoke party in Virginia, belting out "Fins" in a pair of khaki shorts.
The following exchanges today with Ondreah, a server at the bar, pretty much made up for the fact that it was raining and cold and barely anyone came in all day:
Me: So where do you live? Ondreah: Southside. Me:::nodding my head:: Ah. Gotcha. Ondreah: PFFF, Moe! Moe! ::Moe walks over:: I just told Meghan that I live on the Southside and she's all nodding her head like she hangs out there! HAHAHA! Me: I never said I hung out there! Moe: I bet you've never even been there. Me: YEA HUH! I did my college community service there!!! ::Ondreah and Moe look at eachother, crack up, and promptly walk away::
[While talking about an episode of Intervention] Ondreah: He spent like $84,000 in three weeks on crack and cars and alcohol and trickin'... Me: Yikes. That's impressive! Ondreah: ...Do you know what "trickin'" is? Me: Prostitution. Ondreah: No, it's buying pussy. Me: Is there a difference between buying pussy and prostitution? Ondreah: Oh girl, you are straight outta the suburbs.
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